You Will Learn
by abbytherat
Summary: Anthony and Johanna bring Toby and -SURPRISE- half-dead Sweeney Todd with them when they escape London. Old warnings take new meaning as Anthony tries to repair the damage and finds there's more connecting the four of them than he ever imagined. No Slash
1. Chapter 1

**I usually don't like musicals, but I'll make an exception for this one, as it happens to have become one of my FAVORITE MOVIES EVER!! Anyways I thought it'd be interesting to continue the story a bit.**

**I don't own any of this. It belongs to a bunch of other people, Stephen Sondheim and Tim Burton included.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

When Anthony returned to the pie shop with a coach, the last thing he expected was to see was the horrible specter that came careening down the stairs towards him.

"Mr. Todd!" he cried, "What has happened?" Sweeney didn't answer. He kept walking, but as he passed under one of the lamps that hung about the place Anthony started even worse and said, "My God… are you injured, sir?"

"Out of my way," Sweeney growled at him.

"But Mr. Todd, you're covered with blood!" Anthony then made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He grasped Sweeney's arm and restrained him from leaving.

In a wink, he found himself pressed against the building, a bloody razor pressed to his neck and Sweeney Todd's watery, rage-filled eyes boring into his own. "M-Mr. Todd?" he whimpered.

Sweeney flinched, and the madness fled his features. Slowly and fearfully he backed away from the sailor, his weapon held up in warning, until his back met a door. With a happy tinkling, he slipped into his neighbor's shop.

Anthony had half a mind to pursue his friend, but then a dreadful suspicion took hold of him. Mr. Todd had just come from his place drenched in blood and holding a weapon. A disguised Johanna had been left at Mr. Todd's to wait for the coach. Anthony's mind made the horrible connection and he bolted up the stairs.

He burst through the door and stared around in horror. The place was covered with almost as much blood as Sweeney, and there was a body in the barber's chair. He could tell by the hat it was Johanna, but her knees were drawn up, her hands were clinging to the arms, and she was rigid. He gently touched her arm and said her name, hoping against hope that she was not dead.

At the touch and soft noise, the poor girl jumped with a yelp. When she saw who it was, she buried her face in his chest, not sobbing, nor shedding a single tear, but just trembling away her fright in his protective warmth.

"That man," her voice was strangely steady, "he was going to kill me."

Her savior soothingly stroked her back and said, "Mr. Todd?… he would never hurt you."

Carefully he eased her into standing and began to walk with her out of that place. "Come now. We must fly from here before the Judge comes looking for us."

The girl stopped moving and stiffened even more. "He already did," she said. "He's dead."

"What do you mean?" Anthony let go of his embrace and held her by the shoulders at arms length.

"That man killed him, and Lucy too, and I think the Beadle got it before we came, from what she said."

"Who's Lucy?"

Johanna met his eyes dreamily. "A beggar who used to clutch to my clothes and sing nonsense whenever Turpin took me out. He would never let me go anywhere if she was around, and she was always there. She's dead now, though. All of them who plagued me… he killed them all…"

She looked like she was about to faint, so Anthony jostled her a bit and asked, "Who killed them? Who could murder three people?" He didn't want to be rough on her, but if there was a homicidal madman on the loose he had to know what to look for.

"The barber," she answered. "He had a blade, and blood… he was covered in so much of it."

Anthony let go as though burned by her. "No," he murmured, "no, not Sweeney Todd. He wouldn't do something like… like _this_," he gestured at the blood stained walls.

Finally the young woman jolted out of her shock. She gently took the hand of her upset savior and shook her head. "Turpin knew him. He called him Benjamin Barker, not Todd."

The Sailor let his breath escape and, hearing the whistle of the coach, lead her out. When he reached the street though, he hesitated and looked back to the eerily silent building. He placed his hands once more on Johanna's shoulders and said, "Forgive me, but I must leave you again. My friend went in there you see, and if this Barker person is still around killing people I must warn him."

Nodding she said, "I'm coming with you."

"No, it's much too danger-"

"I'm not afraid," she cut him off.

The Sailor gave her a momentary pleading look, then turned to the coachman. "Will you wait here for us, please?"

The gruff, portly man shrugged and said, "Whatever's yer fancy, sir. Jus' remember it when's tippin' time."

Together the young couple headed back into the den of horrors they had just escaped.

Inside the shop all was dark and quiet, except for the bit of flickering firelight and the sound of shuffling footsteps that came from a door heading to the cellar.

Anthony stood at the top of the stairs and watched as a young boy came out from down below. The poor wretch was pale as a sheet and had dark, sunken eyes; easily recognized as shock. He didn't notice any other presence as he slowly ascended from the light, that is until Anthony went down to him and said, "Young man?"

The boy gasped in fear and turned to dash away, but Anthony was too quick, catching him by the arm. He was instantly thrown into madness, and thrashed and screamed so violently that his captor had to sit on the stars in order for the two of them not to plummet. Gently, Anthony tried to hold him still until he quieted. Johanna too squeezed herself into the stairwell and managed to get her arms around him, holding him close.

He calmed much more at her touch than from the man's, so Anthony let go and sat back. "There, there," Johanna expertly cooed, "You're all right, nothing's going to harm you…" but he started sobbing at that. "Come now, what's all this for?" she asked.

"Mrs. Lovett… and the pies…" he whimpered, "e threw 'er in the oven like the pies. And they're full of people… _people_. The grinder, it 'as fingers and 'ands and feet and eyes and 'e killed 'er so I _killed 'im!_"

"Poor lad seems to have lost it," Anthony whispered. "I'm going to check what happened down there. I'll only be a moment."

* * *

The first thing saw was the glinting blade on the floor. Like a story, his eyes followed the almost luminous droplets of blood to the sorrowful tapestry that sat in the middle of the dark chamber. Sweeney Todd knelt on the cold stone, cradling the corpse of an old beggar woman, his back hunched over her and his face hidden by his dark hair. 

"Mr. Todd?" Anthony ventured. There was no answer and, as he approached the scene, he noticed that Sweeney looked far older than he had ever seen him. He also noticed the trembling of his friend and the little rivulets that dripped onto the corpse. "Mr. Todd!" he cried, rushing over just in time catch the man in mid slump before he hit the floor.

The old woman dropped away as Sweeney lay there, the trembling becoming more violent from blood loss. He became aware of himself for a moment long enough to try and claw Anthony away, but the Sailor would not be dissuaded. Anthony held him down with one hand, murmuring, "Steady now… steady…" while he used the other to tilt his friend's head back and assess the damage.

The wound wasn't deep. In fact it was barely more than a nick, but there was so much blood… Anthony feared an artery might have been cut, but didn't know enough about physiology to check for sure or do anything about it. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and tried to stop the bleeding with it, but he couldn't apply any of the needed pressure without strangling Sweeney.

"Leave me be," the barber managed to whisper weakly.

Anthony forced a smile and said, "Nonsense, Mr. Todd. I'm not letting any friend of mine die in some loathsome bake house…" At the last word he realized he had a way to save his friend.

He got up and searched the room, taking in the corpses, the grinder full of human remains, the pile of bones stuffed in a corner, the stench of rotting and burning flesh… taking in all of it, and yet none of it. Just like in a storm at sea, he noticed all the details, but focused only on what he needed, which he found in large sacks at the back.

With a pocketknife he sliced open the topmost sack and scooped up as much of the flower inside as he could fit in both hands, then returned to the now unconscious barber's side. He peeled back the drenched cloth and replaced it with a sprinkling of flour. Instantly the blood soaked into it and thickened. The more he added, the more it coagulated until he was stuffing it into the wound. Not only did it stop the flow, but it also hardened into a malleable plaster, as effective as any bandage. He might have feared clots, but he would let a surgeon worry about that later.

Just as Anthony was finishing up, he was hit with a whirling mass of child. The boy from the stairway jumped him from behind and was beating at him, screaming, "WHY ARE YOU BLOODY 'ELPING 'IM?!?"

Johanna rushed over and had him in her arms again. "I'm sorry," she said urgently to Anthony, "You took so long and I was worried."

He shook his head to tell her she needn't apologize, then patted the boy and said, "Easy son, what's all this?"

The boy looked at him with unexpected ice. "You're 'elping the devil 'imself, sir."

"I know this man… he's not-"

The boy tried to wrench himself from Johanna's arms. "You know 'im? You KNOW 'IM!?! Than you know, _sir_, that 'e's the one's been killing all them men wot gone missin'… and my Pirelli… and Mrs. Lovett. 'E… 'e must 'a forced 'er to bake 'em up…" He fell silent and still.

Johanna looked from the man on the floor to Anthony and said, "He's right. That's the man who killed Turpin. If he's your Mr. Todd than… I'm sorry…"

Again Anthony shook his head. He looked down at his friend, his mind taxed. He wasn't disbelieving, not at all. It had been hard for him to avoid accepting this truth before now…

In the silence, the boy started whimpering again. "Will they send me back to the workhouse now? Or the noose? Will they 'ang me for killin' Mr. Todd?"

"Tell me son, what's your name?" Anthony asked softly.

"T-Toby."

The sailor smiled. "Well Toby," he said, "this lady and I are going very far away from here. What say you come with us?"

Toby peered at him warily and answered, "I'd like that very much, sir."

"It's settled then, but," he took a deep breath, "I'd like you to know that Mr. Todd's coming too." When Toby shrank fearfully away from that he went on. "I believe what you're saying about him, but I can't just leave him here to die." He was meeting Johanna's eyes, looking for her approval as well. "Please, he won't be able to hurt anyone the way he is now."

Toby made no noise either way, but Johanna slowly nodded.

Soon the barber's few belongings were retrieved and the four convicts were packed into the coach, trundling off to whatever the future held for them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Don't own. **

**Hope you enjoy.**

There was a soft groan, a wince here and there, steady, rapid breathing… This was the doctor's third day visiting this particular patient and he could see little to no improvement. "Damn city surgeons, think they know everything…" he muttered as he checked over the stitching in the man's neck.

After he applied some ointment and fresh bandages, he took up the man's scarred wrist and pressed two fingers against it. The pulse there was stronger, but its rhythm was worryingly fast. It felt like the beat of someone in the throws of emotion, rather than the half-corpse he was tending.

He was troubled too by the patient's temperature, no matter how much good Sarah's nephew insisted it was normal.

Speaking of whom…

"Dr Hobson, sir," whispered Anthony as he let himself into the room, "how is he?"

"Not much better, lad," grunted the grizzled man. "The wound doesn't look bad, but I don't care what you say about this fever a' his, he's got himself some illness."

Anthony looked over the prone, sweat-soaked form with a complicated expression before asking, "Could it be that thing the surgeon did?"

"The transfusion? T'hell if I know. Ruddy unnatural thing to do… kills more 'an it saves. Did you have to take him to a charlatan?"

The young man shrugged. "He was dieing, and Dr Blundell was good enough to take him in the middle of the night. Johanna knew… Mr. Todd?" He noticed that Sweeney's eyes were cracked open.

The doctor was nonplussed, and simply said, "My, my. Welcome back to the living, sir. How do you feel?"

Sweeney stared at the man, at first in confusion, then apprehension. Eventually he averted his eyes to the side and answered with a withering sigh.

Dr Hobson was anxious about the muddled look and said, "Sir, are you awake? Can you hear me?" There came no answer. To make sure the man was still lucid, he leaned over and snapped his fingers in the patient's face.

This caused Sweeney to snap. He raised himself almost to sitting and opened his mouth to yell something at the Doctor, but all that came out was a hoarse choke. He struggled with a painful fit, his eyes shut tight, face scrunched, teeth bared, and fingers clutching at his blankets. Swiftly there came a hand on his shoulder and another on his brow. He tried to jerk them off, but it did no good, and he was pushed back onto the bed.

"Calm down now," said Hobson. The doctor may be old, but a lifetime of tending to patients who wanted none of it left him as tough as an aged tree. Sweeney's struggles were nothing to him, and were soon replaced by wheezy breathing and exhaustion. "There's a good man," still he kept his hands on the patient. "You must keep still. You're stitched up good, but if you rip them you could bleed to death within ten minutes."

When Sweeney tried to respond to that, the Doctor cut him off. "You shouldn't speak either. There's a lot of swelling going on. It's going to make talking, and swallowing a mite painful."

"Bug off!" the man growled defiantly, a look of such savagery on his face that the Doctor drew back his hands in fear of losing a finger.

"Very well," said Hobson, "We'll leave you to rest. Anthony." He picked up his bag and headed to the door, waving his hand for the sailor to accompany him.

"Would you say a reaction like that is normal, my boy?" he asked, once the door was shut.

"No sir," answered Anthony, "He's normally very calm and well mannered… though that's changed a bit since we came to London."

"Hmm, leastways he's awake. Looks like you're lady-friend's blood did the trick." He rummaged in his black leather bag as he spoke. "How is she, by the way? Still light in the head?"

"Not as much."

Anthony's voice was oddly grave for such good news, and this earned him a calculating look over by Hobson. "But?" ventured the doctor.

"She's not sleeping well, and…" He gazed his elder with an odd sheen in his eyes and said, "It's nothing. She's fine."

Hobson nodded wisely and said, "Even so, I'd best take a look at her. Where is she?"

"Out on the grounds, last I saw her."

The doctor continued nodding as he started into his bag again. "Mr. Todd's health is still tedious. He's had no food in him for days and he needs to keep still, as I've said. Can he be trusted to stay in bed and rest?"

Anthony contemplated for a moment and said, "I don't know, sir. He's a restless one, but I've seen him stay in one spot for days. It could go either way."

Hobson found what he was looking for. "Well, if he's less than willing, you can use this." He held out a small bottle with a fancy dropper for a lid. "A drop in his food or drink will knock him out for a good two or three hours, and keep him weak for several after that. If it doesn't, try two drops, but be very careful and don't exceed four in one day."

Anthony took the bottle hesitantly and regarded it with distaste. "You want me to drug him?"

He smiled at the boy and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "If he tries to move about he'll kill himself, so you can either use that, or tie him to the bed." Turning to leave, he said, "Now, I'm going to speak with Miss Johanna. I want you to stay with your friend for now, give him some comfort. I'll ask good Sarah to make him up a broth and send it by, and you know what to do. I'll check in again before I leave. Now go."

The sailor slipped the drug inside his jacket and said a quick, "Thank you," before slipping back into Sweeney's room.

The barber was laying much as he'd been left, but his head was turned to the side and his eyes shut… he was asleep, or at least looked like it. Anthony only glanced at him once before moving to a window in time to see Dr Hobson crossing the yard to where Johanna and the boy, Toby, were sitting beneath a tree.

He practically lived in that particular tree when he was a child…

"Anthony…"

He looked over at Sweeney, who still had his eyes shut, but continued to speak. "Who was that man?" His voice was small and delicate, ready to break.

"Dr Eric Hobson," Anthony answered. "You needn't fear him. He's very kind, I've known him longer than I've had teeth."

Sweeney looked at him and then peered at the room. It was a small country affair, bright, warm, and practical. "Where are we?"

"My Aunt Sarah's," answered the sailor, his gaze returning to the window, "It's in the countryside, not far out of Crawley."

"How… no wait…" His hand came up and tentatively felt the bandages on his neck. "Not a dream, then?"

"No, sir. You are not dreaming, nor were you before."

"Then why am I alive?"

The silence in the room went on a long time before Anthony answered. "I don't know," he said. "I couldn't kill you… a friend, without knowing what possessed you to…" Again he fell silent.

"Is the Judge dead?" Anthony didn't answer fast enough so Sweeney started trying to sit up. He resisted angrily when the sailor pushed him down. He simultaneously sank back into his pillow and grabbed Anthony's shirt. "Tell me!" he seethed, dragging Anthony till their faces were almost touching.

Anthony regarded the anger in his eyes and said, "Yes." Sweeney let him go, the momentary strength and fury vanished, allowing the sailor to find his nerve again and continue, "The Beadle is dead as well, and Mrs. Lovett, and at least a score of innocent men…"

"And Lucy…" Anthony was startled by the tone of the barber's voice when he said that old hag's name. It was a tone that only came out when he talked of his past, and it was full of an agony that had nothing to do with his injuries.

Anthony wanted very much to question Todd's connection to the woman, but held back, saying only, "Yes," instead.

Sweeney shifted, a new and even stranger pain in his eyes when he asked, "What of Johanna?"

Anthony looked away at that, his face darkening with restrained anger. "Why do you even care?" he snapped. "Toby told me of the letter you sent. You were in league with Turpin all along… I trusted you and you sold me out."

"I had no intention of _ever_ letting that abhorred bastard lay his claws on her again… but yes, I sold you to him…" Sweeney exhaled every bit of air he had in his lungs and tried to keep it out as long as he could, before saying, "All the more reason I deserve to be dead. You should kill me now, son, do the world a favor."

Anthony swallowed. His heart was softened by the amount of hatred and despair in Sweeney's words, though he knew it was wrong to take pity on a murderer. "I can't do that," he whispered.

Sweeney didn't press the issue. He lay there, breathing and staring into space like he so often would. "Than tell me," he said, "What of Johanna?"

Anthony didn't answer right away. He could feel his anger and betrayal brewing once more as he said, "She can't sleep because your face keeps haunting her nightmares. Every night she sees you coming to slit her throat." He didn't expect the amount of venom that managed to seep into his voice, but he didn't regret it either.

"What!?" Sweeney's eyes went wide as he swung his disbelieving stare at the boy. "Why would she-"

"Because she was hiding in your shop when you murdered her guardian. You turned your blade on her, Mr. Todd. You almost killed her."

Todd's voice was barely able to squeak out, but still he yelled, "No! She wasn't there. I didn't-"

"She was disguised as a boy," Anthony finished.

Sweeney made no response to this. Comprehension crossed his features and then… nothing. He turned away from Anthony, no longer able to look at him. There was no emotion on his face, but his eyes shone with moisture, which collected at their edges. Though the tears didn't fall, it was the closest Anthony ever saw him come to crying.

"Why do you care so much about a girl you don't even know?" Anthony asked slowly.

Sweeney took a deep breath and said, "I'm-"

He was cut off by a knocking at the door, and fell silent.

Anthony answered it, and came back into the room with a tumbler of warm, savory smelling broth. He placed it on the vanity, next to the pictures and doll that had been taken from Todd's room, took out the bottle from his pocket, and said, "Dr Hobson gave this to me." He was staring at it, contemplating. "It is a drug to put you to sleep, keep you calm, but I can't give it to you under false pretences." He looked at Sweeney and said, "I think you need it, though."

Sweeney's head went down and up in a single nod. Anthony opened the bottle and carefully squeezed a bead of the clear liquid from the dropper into the broth. He helped his 'friend' drink without letting him sit up, and though he took only tiny, aching swallows, it was soon empty.

Within minutes, he was fast asleep, and Anthony was back at the window, watching his beloved from afar.


	3. Chapter 3

**By the way, I'm setting this around the mid-1800s, seeing as that's about the time Todd started showing up in literature.**

**I don't own any of these lovely characters, nor any song lyrics.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

The fire licked hungrily at the dark evening air as though it were some delicious sweet, its light doing a merry jig across the sullen features of the young woman who sat by its hearth. The light glinted in her hair, perfectly accenting the goldenness that so many men sought to covet. It also danced in dimmer reds around the shadowy room, making her think of a thicker hue…

At first, the nightmares were terrible. She would see the man, Todd, slashing at her throat, or sometimes it would be the Judge, or her savior, Anthony. Other times she would see herself slashing at Turpin and Lucy and the Beadle. She would be the one bathing in their blood.

Now almost a week was past, and though Anthony still fussed about these dreams, they were faded to little more than shadows.

Her guilt over reviling in her guardian's death found itself come to terms, and her fear that she would meet the same fate was spent. No, the truth was, she just couldn't sleep.

It seems she wasn't the only one, as she heard a soft creak in the hallway, and a short figure came into the room.

"Couldn't sleep either, Toby?" she asked the boy.

He jolted out of his thoughts and stammered, "Oh! I… I… s-sorry mum… I didn't…" His voice was weighty and the firelight was caught on his cheeks, on the tears there.

"It's quite alright," she told him, offering up one of her sad smiles. She wouldn't tell him that there was no need to cry, for she new all too well the falsity of such statements. Neither did she offer to hold or comfort the child, as her previous efforts had simply sent him running. She would just let him do as he pleased.

Toby moved into the room and sat on a couch near the back, making not a peep.

Johanna felt herself alone, with the weight of her uncertainty and hopelessness bearing down once more. She had always likened herself to the little songbirds Judge Turpin was partial to giving her, and she thought over the gilded cage she was finally free of. Yet it was all she had ever known. She was cast from it so suddenly that she was now fearful of the deep yaw that was freedom, fearful that the wings she so long yearned to stretch would fail her.

She was accustomed to similar crushing feelings, and she countered them the only way she knew how… singing. Not the song about finches and linnet birds though, she knew the answers to what that song always posed. Instead she hummed a tune that was far older, and that had no words. There was never anyone to sing a lullaby when she was small, so she came up with one herself… or rather recalled one from the depths of her short life before the Judge, for she was sure that's where it came from. After all it was much slower and deeper than anything she ever composed.

"What's that song, mum?" Toby interrupted her.

"Oh, just something from when I was very little," she answered wistfully. She turned to him and said, "Do you like it?"

Surprisingly he shook his head. "Sounds too familiar. Gives me the willies, it does."

Her heart did a little back flip at that, though she took care to cover up her eagerness. "And where did _you_ hear it?"

He shrugged, got up, and left.

* * *

"Johanna?" 

The girl moaned and curled even more into her ball.

"Johanna."

Again that voice permeated her dark comfort of sleep. It was a nice voice though. Young, kind… male?

At that realization, she jerked away and looked blearily around. She was still in the sitting room, lying on the rug by the hearth. The somber light of a late fall morning shone though every window, and Anthony was leaning over her, his hand on her shoulder, his face concerned.

"Were you out here all night?" he asked.

She slowly sat up and stretched her stiff limbs before answering with a simple, "Yes."

"Was it the nightmares again?"

"No," she snapped a little too harshly at him.

His shoulders sank at that, despair written all over him. "Please, don't do this again. I'm only trying to help you."

"Well I don't need it." She stood up, but her legs weren't quite ready for it and she tottered. Before she knew it, Anthony had her by the arms, steadying her. She might have fallen had he not done this, yet it angered her and she pulled away. In her mind, he was trying to hold her to him, claim her and lock her in a new cage.

When tears began to sting, Anthony reached a hand slowly towards her. Wanting only to comfort her and trying not to make her feel oppressed, but he failed miserably.

"Leave me alone!" she cried shrilly at him as she pushed past and bolted.

Through the big old farmhouse she ran, her bare feet thumping against cool, ancient wood and scratchy, threadbare carpets until she was satisfyingly lost.

She looked around and found herself on the second story, in some dark hallway lined with doors that she had yet to explore. There was a window at the end with a little bench beneath it. Boldly she walked to it, kneeled, and stared out the window at the leaf-smothered grounds. She had a good view of the paddock where Miss Sarah's horses grazed, and she was content to watch them for a while.

After a time she began to hum her forgotten lullaby again. Now that her fear was past she felt awful for lashing out at Anthony… kind, tender Anthony who cared enough for a girl he never met to brave the Judge and the law to rescue her. The tears from earlier slipped unnoticed down her face.

Suddenly she gasped. How long had her voice been joined by another? It was not just humming either, but singing words interposed over almost the same melody as hers. It was a man's voice though, and the song was being made much sadder than she remembered.

Carefully she listened.

What she heard was low and broken, as though the person was crying. It sounded far away, muffled. Johanna rose from her spot and walked down the hall, stopped when the voice sounded loudest, and stared at the door it was coming from just as it stopped.

It started up again soon enough and this time she could catch the words:

_There was a barber and his wife_

_And she was beautiful…_

She stood there, taking it in, not knowing anything about this "foolish barber" or his "beautiful wife," but pitying them being captured by such sorrowful sound. It finished on the word "naive…" spoken rather than sung, and a more sickening, consuming hatred had never been packed into two syllables as these.

Footsteps could be heard on the nearby stairs and instantly Johanna felt the exhilaration of being a child again and outright defying Turpin. In a swift movement she swung the door open, and shut it softly behind herself.

When she turned to see who was in the room her body went rigid. There on the bed lay Sweeney Todd, his agape expression of shock mirroring her own. She didn't gasp or scream though, and soon found she wasn't afraid. Sure this man had threatened her, but only with death. There were far worse fates, as she figured.

This was the first time she saw him since that night, and what she took in before anything else was how different he looked without all the blood. First of all, he wasn't as old or monstrous as she recalled. His pale face was framed by dark hair that spread untended across the linen, a single shock of white she didn't notice before hanging in his face. His dark eyes stared out from their bruised lids, looking like they were made of glass and set in some sort of perverse doll, yet there were no tears. It was hard to believe a man who wasn't crying could sound as he did, but then Johanna noticed the bandages on his neck.

He didn't look scary at all, but rather sickly and frail. Even his body was thin, and made to look more so by the overlarge white cotton shirt he was wearing.

"What are you doing in here?" he breathed. His voice, his eyes, his lack of expression, the rapid rise and fall of his chest… it all spoke of fear, but why should he, a murderer being called the 'Demon Barber of Fleet Street' by the press, be afraid of a young woman.

"Good morning, Mr. Todd," she said, trying to sound friendly. "I was wondering if you could tell me where you came across that song you were singing just now?"

He didn't answer, and continued to stare as though she were a ghost or some apparition. It was making Johanna slightly worried, so she took a careful step towards him and said, "Sir? Are you alright?"

He tried to push himself up, and away from her, but was too weak. Of course… didn't Anthony assure her Todd was being kept drugged, and thus harmless? Perhaps it was causing his confusion as well.

"There's no need to be afraid," she assured him, "My name is Johanna. No doubt Anthony has told you of me?"

"Johanna…" Sweeney whispered. His voice broke on the last syllable. "Are you real?" he just barely managed to get that out.

Johanna thought that was a strange question to ask. "Last I checked, yes."

Sweeney hadn't blinked once yet, and it was starting to make her nervous. She looked away, and her eyes fell on the vanity. She looked at the photos once again… the beautiful woman and the infant. It wasn't hard for her to put them together with Sweeney's lyrics. He was a barber. Here was his beautiful wife.

Then she noticed the doll. Gently she lifted the grimy old thing and looked it over, waving one of the arms at herself. It was familiar to her… though she didn't know why.

She placed it down and turned back to Sweeney, who hadn't moved, nor stopped staring. She took a couple of steps towards him, and every bit closer she got, the more his brow furrowed and the more he cringed. There was something in his face… something that made her feel as the doll had. Like he looked similar to someone she met once, but couldn't quite recall.

She felt strange in this moment… surreal. Suddenly she wanted to touch him, this man who chased away all her nightmares and replaced them with new ones. She reached out with her fingers and lightly pressed them against the back of his hand. His skin was surprisingly hot, but she only had a moment to take the feel of it in before it was ripped away from her.

When she met Todd's eyes again his fear had turned to something else… not anger, not anything she could understand.

"Get out!" he barked, making her jump back a little.

"I just-" she tried to object but…

"GET OUT!!!" he repeated, louder this time.

Then he was on his feet.

He was advancing on her.

He had her backed to the wall.

Oh God, he was going to kill her!

Johanna gave a little cry of terror and shut her eyes from this nightmare, crossing her arms over her face in a desperate attempt at protection…

"Please, noooo…" she whimpered.

"Johanna? Mr. Todd? What's going on in here?" That was Anthony, and when Johanna dared to peek between her arms, she saw him rushing over to rescue her.

But he never got to her. Instead he stopped at Sweeney who's face she didn't realize had blanched, and who was on his way to the ground. Anthony eased him to sitting and then shook him a little. "Hey! Mr. Todd!"

Sweeney made no reply. Instead he held his hands, curled into angry claws, up to his face and leered at them.

Anthony looked up at Johanna and said, "Go."

But she didn't move. "Is… is he…"

"It's alright," he said softly, "Just go."

And so she went, and ran down the stairs, through the hallways, into the kitchen, and straight out the back door…


	4. Chapter 4

**Another chapter, here we go!**

**Sweeney and the others don't belong to me.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

Once Johanna was gone, Sweeney seemed to calm a little. His hands fell to rest against his knees and he relaxed, but he also stopped moving, or even breathing.

"Sir? Sir can you hear me?" Anthony pleaded. He was so busy trying to get Sweeney to respond that when the man spoke, he missed what was said. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"What am I?" Todd repeated, his voice little more than a growl.

Anthony looked at him with sympathy and said, "You're a barber, Mr. Todd."

But he shut his eyes and shook his head. "Was I going to hurt her?"

"I don't think so," and that was the truth. When Anthony entered the room he was backing away from Johanna, looking more terrified even than she was. "Come on," said Anthony, "Lets get you back in bed before you kill yourself."

Sweeney stayed where he was though, and one side of his mouth quirked up in a small, demented smile. ""Kill myself..? Yes…" His hand flashed up to his bandaged neck, ready to rip the stitches open. They weren't in London anymore. The blasted boy wouldn't be able to find some miracle doctor to keep him alive this time.

"NO!" Anthony cried as he tackled Todd, grabbing his wrist and crushing him to the floor.

"What are you doing, boy?! Let go!" Despite his drugged weakness he struggled desperately, thrashing his head from side to side, determined to break the stitches even if he couldn't use his hands to do it. He gave a frustrated cry when Anthony managed to grip his hair with a free hand and steal away even that chance.

"You can't kill yourself! I won't let you!" Anthony yelled.

"Why?" Todd stopped struggling and held himself tense, glaring viciously at the younger man. "I'm a monster, Anthony. Why not let me take my life? It's what I want."

The sailor didn't really know an answer to that. All he knew was he couldn't let Todd do it, and he cast his mind about, desperate for some excuse. "Because… because it's sacrilege."

Much to his chagrin, Sweeney's face broke into a wicked, twisted sneer. "You're worried I might go to hell?" he asked. "I daresay I'm already on my way."

"All the more reason to keep living."

Todd's strength finally failed, and he collapsed beneath his subduer. He closed his eyes and said, "What's the point of living to escape hell if my life is nothing better…" his voice laced with utter crushing defeat.

Anthony sighed and got off, kneeling next to Todd. This was completely unlike the man he knew, and he had to say something. He thought for a moment, pulling up a memory from what seemed like ages ago. "Even when faced with the most torturous of adversities, you have a choice. You can either give up and make it permanent, or endure it in the off chance that it's not."

Sweeney's features hardened at those words. His skeptical eyes roved over Anthony. "Where did you hear such tripe?"

Anthony smiled, and with deep satisfaction said, "From you."

The other man's face didn't change. He stared at the sailor and said nothing.

"You don't remember, do you?" Anthony asked. "We were in a bar in Singapore, and you were telling me and some of the crew about Australia. That Weckerly chap asked you how you survived, and that was your answer."

Sweeney frowned, trying to think of what the young man was talking about. "I don't recall…"

"You were drunk."

"Well there you have it." He sighed and sat up carefully. "When I said that… well… Those sentiments have since been adulterated. I don't deserve them."

Anthony set his jaw and said, "Perhaps you're right, but did you deserved the lot you were given before all of this madness?"

No answer. Sweeney went vacant, sitting there unmoving, no touch of life on his face, no light left in his eyes. That look was deeply unnerving to Anthony, who knew him to be always alert and attentive. The sailor repeated his name a few times, shook him hard, even tapped the side of his face, but got nothing. Finally he gave up, frightened for his friend but accepting there was nothing he could do.

He slipped a hand under each of Sweeney's arms and lifted him up onto the bed. Although the barber moved under his own power, he took no initiative, and Anthony had to guide his legs onto the mattress, ease him to laying, and cover him with the obnoxiously blue flowered quilt. He went along with it all making not a sound, nor a blink. The subtle rise and fall of his chest was the only clue to the world that he wasn't a corpse.

Once he was done, Anthony stood back and stared for a long time. He hoped it was the drug inducing this strange catatonia, and resolved right then to cease administering it. Yet he doubted it was the real cause.

Sweeney was ill, and, thinking back to when they first landed in London, Anthony realized he hadn't been much better then. The young man recalled his hateful words towards the city, how he spoke of cruelty, vermin, and ghosts, and of his past…

Of course! Four terrible words fell into place in Anthony's mind: IT WAS THE JUDGE!!!

He always knew the barber from Sweeney's story was Sweeney himself, and didn't he say it was a man of the law who framed him, just to have at his wife… Turpin certainly was the kind of scum to do such a thing. Suddenly Anthony had a new appreciation of his friend's lost demeanor that night, returning home, hating the man who thrust him from everything he loved, fearing what he might find of his wife…

For the first time, Anthony understood it was his own guilt that drove him to keep this madman alive. He had seen the pain Sweeney was in, and yet was too busy enjoying the sights to take notice. Every time he had a problem and went to Todd for help, the man was acting worse, stranger, more frightening than the last, but he was too centered on his own plight to realize it was _Todd_ who desperately needed _him_. In fact he had even ripped the barber's revenge away at one point. The time he walked into the shop to find Turpin in the chair, Sweeney's razor at his throat… It would have been over then if not for Anthony's blundering. No wonder Todd was so livid.

If only he had seen it from the outset, he could have stayed with Sweeney and prevented all the insanity. How much blood could have been spared if only he had been a better friend?

And now there lay Sweeney, a murder, a monster with no hope of redemption, and at the moment a soul broken beyond repair. Anthony tore his eyes away from the sight and covered his mouth with a hand to catch the sob that was threatening to escape. There was nothing he could do now… but wallowing in grief would only make things worse. He would stay with Sweeney until the man emerged from whatever dark pit he was trapped in… if he emerged… and what then?

Anthony suddenly felt the dire need for some air. He rushed over to the room's only window, threw up the sash, thrust his head out, and took several gulps of the warm, leafy smelling fall air.

* * *

"She's beautiful…" 

Anthony jerked his head up from where he was dozing against the windowsill. He was sitting in a small chair he got when he realized he had a long wait ahead of him, and judging by the reddish sunlight of evening cast over the yard, that had been hours ago.

"That she is, sir," he said, guessing correctly whom the man was referring to.

Sweeney's body was still unmoving and limp, and he still looked like he was staring at something miles away, but there was a bit more life to the way he was breathing. He gulped, which must have hurt because it was followed by a grimace, and then he said, "What color is her hair?"

"Sir?" Anthony was just relieved Sweeney had returned to consciousness and didn't bother understanding what he meant.

Sweeney shot him a look of impatience, as though the answer to this question was a matter of life and death. "Please, my eyes aren't what they were…"

Ah yes, the barber once explained that he couldn't see colors properly. He described his vision to Anthony as being dusky and faded, with some hues showing up properly, but mostly appearing washed out or gray.

"It's golden," Anthony answered, "As deep a gold as harvest wheat." He looked outside and tried to imagine not being able to see all of those brilliant colors, the yellowing of the grass, the orange of the turning leaves, the pale crimson of the evening sky. He had to suppress a small shudder.

"I must have frightened her something awful. Please extend my apologies."

Anthony nodded, and sat forward, his hands clasped nervously between his knees. He wanted to say something appropriate, to apologize to Sweeney for his negligence, but he didn't know how to do it without simply causing pain.

Sweeney spoke up again before he had a chance to get anything out. "Is she… is she still having nightmares?"

"She says she's not," said Anthony. He really didn't want to talk about this, as Sweeney's concern was probably just spawned from guilt, but it was beginning to feel like old times. Tell his problems to Mr. Todd, and they'd be figured out in a wink. "But she still seems so frightened and sad, and she won't let me near her. It's as though she suspects everyone of being there to hurt her, and," he stopped, remembering to slow himself down and be careful of what he blurted out. "It might have been like that before, but I've tried everything to get her to understand that it's over now. She can't though. She's determined to stay trapped in the past."

"Hmm, sounds a bit like her father," Sweeney said softly, more to himself than anything.

That statement surprised Anthony. "Surely you don't mean Judge Turpin?!"

The barber's face contorted as he sat up. "Don't you _dare_ think that way of her, boy!" he bellowed as well as his damaged throat would allow. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to regain his composure, and when he opened them again they were shuttered. "I'm sorry. My temper… it seems it is always lost these days." There was a moment of silence between them, but before Anthony could break it he continued. "Don't let the girl come near me again," he said icily. "I want to be left alone… by you as well."

"Sir, I-"

"That means leave, Anthony."

The sailor didn't obey this right away. His friend's voice was sounding more ragged over the course of their conversation, so he offered up the glass of water that was always left on the vanity.

Sweeney took it, eying Anthony questioningly. "You forgot to drug it," he said in a flat tone.

"The drug was only to keep you from harming yourself," Anthony explained, "but you proved that you're still quite capable of such things even when you're doped. I fear the only way to stop you is to tie you down, and I'm not doing that." He smiled down at his friend. "But please, I beg of you not to do anything to hurt yourself."

The older man looked away, frowning at this little outburst of thoughtfulness. "I might hurt someone else," he whispered.

"I don't think you will," Anthony put a lot of conviction in his voice right then, "Not anymore."

Todd watched the flower pattern of his horrible quilt as he mumbled, "You're a fool."


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's another chapter, wheeeeee! And a big thanks to everyone for the great reviews! Especially the juicy critical ones!  
**

**Don't own.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

Dinner every night was a quiet affair. It was always spent in the cozy kitchen around a rough, chipped, and cracked little table, as the grand oak monstrosity in the dinning room had been carved by some notable artisan, dead for two hundred years, and thus was only eaten on when there was impressions to be made. Though the meal was a delicious thing consisting of roasts and potatoes and vegetables that weren't always available and never fresh in the city, the only person who took any savor from it was the cook herself, Sarah, and she was a quiet, austere individual anyways, so the atmosphere suited her perfectly.

Johanna picked at her food. She usually cleaned her plate, but slowly and not before first dissecting it into bits with her cutlery. She did all this rigidly, refusing to open her mouth for more than the two seconds it took to pop a tiny morsel in. It looked as though she feared her it would betray her if she dared to leave it open longer.

Toby, on the other hand, wouldn't have been able to talk if he wanted to (not that he ever did). It was a wonder the boy could even breathe through the amount of food he stuffed in his face at once. He usually emptied his plate first, but went back for seconds or thirds.

The last person to join them was Anthony, and it was only because his Aunt wouldn't stand for him not sitting down to his meal like a proper gentleman. He was never there for long, though. He devoured dinner without even tasting it so that he could get a plate up to Sweeney and force the man to eat before it got cold.

Yet despite his haste, Anthony's trip up the stairs to his friend's room was one of lagging dread. He held his breath every time he opened his door that he should be met with blood and death on the other side, and every time he was relieved to find nothing.

At the same time it pained him.

Anthony had never thought the term 'loosing one's mind' could be so terribly literal. Sweeney hadn't said a word in days, not since the conversation regarding Johanna, and though he would sometimes be standing at the window, or slowly pacing the tiny swatch of floor available, he spent most of his time recumbent on the bed, staring at the ceiling. If Anthony told him to sit up and eat, he would, but never very much. He did no more than what his body required or what Anthony told him to, and all of this without expression. Beyond that there was nothing. The man was completely torpid, like a body still living, but emptied of anything alive.

By the fourth day of this, when Anthony came down after dark with a tray of food that had barely been touched, he was seriously contemplating whether he had done the right thing in restraining Sweeney from death. He had to concede that it would probably be kinder than such an existence.

"He's still not eating much, child?"

"Hmm?" Anthony looked up from his musings to find himself in the kitchen where his aunt was cleaning up.

Sarah was a tall woman, almost as tall as he was, and she had a sober face etched with the markings of age and hard work. Her mouth was strait, her jaw narrow and jutting, and her eyes wide and green. Those eyes were the same as her little brother's had been, and as his son's, Anthony.

She tucked a swath or her strait gray hair behind her ear as she took the tray and began clearing it. "I don't know why you even bother," she said in her harsh, warbling voice.

Anthony didn't answer. He knew why, but he also knew his aunt. She would probably smack him with her cooking ware for thinking such a way. It was strange for him to be back under her roof, and he was getting that familiar oppressed feeling he spent his childhood desperate to escape.

Sarah gave him a knowing glance and said, "Twenty-nine."

Her nephew was almost on his way out of the room, but he stopped and took the bait. "I beg your pardon?"

"I went into town this morning and the latest news has come in from London. They've finally figured out how many he's killed. Twenty-nine … all in little more than a fortnight."

Anthony reeled, so that he had to grab the back of a chair to steady his feet. He stood with his head bowed before giving up and falling heavily into the same chair. That many… he'd realized it could be, but knowing the exact number made it so much more absolute. He felt disgust - and was guilty for it - but could he honestly force himself to believe all that blood was on _his_ hands?

Sarah gave him a moment to recover before continuing. "I spoke to dear Eric as well. He'll be by in a few days to check that… _man's_health."

Anthony perked up at that. In his stupid haste he'd told the Doctor who Sweeney was. "Will he go to the authorities?"

"No," she said with a cruel chuckle. "He knows if he did you would probably hang, me too I don't wonder. We've had his friendship far to long for him to risk that."

He muttered, "Thank you, ma'am," as he got up and headed out to try and tend to his other responsibilities before turning in for the night.

He could hear her voice carry after him, saying, "Of course, the boy slinks home, and he has to drag the three biggest bedlamites in London with him. Nothing but trouble I always said." She was being deliberately loud, because that's what she did. Pretending she was muttering to herself whilst making sure her opinion was heard.

Anthony just ignored this, after all she was right in a way. He would never refer to his new companions as such, but he acknowledged that all three of them were disturbed in some way. They were the victims of that cruelty Mr. Todd had warned him about, and he refused to give up on them.

Still, things definitely weren't what he envisioned them.

* * *

As Anthony walked along the hall, he noticed a bit of candlelight flickering out of one of the rooms, his late grandfather's study to be exact. Years of sneaking around this house at night left him with the acute knowledge of every creaky floorboard, and he was able to go up to the door and peer in without a sound. 

There was Johanna, the very person he was looking for. She stood with a candlestick clasped in one dainty hand, casting its soft glow across her features, and her other hand reaching to a shelf lined with old books, playing across their spines. Her hair was back in a simple braid and she was wearing a plain green dress with no corset.

To Anthony she was a thousand times more beautiful now that she no longer looked like an iced cake, and was no longer locked behind glass and stone. Yet he feared that was part of the problem. She was used to a life of comfort, riches, and grandeur. Anthony's aunt was far from poor, but her money was hers and she was as frugal as they came. Everything he wanted to give his beloved he would have to earn for himself, and he feared it would not be enough. Surely she must miss the trappings of the life she left behind? It was no wonder she was so miserable.

He made a small coughing noise as he entered the room, just to let Johanna knew he was there, but his presence made her start and nearly drop the candle. She stepped away from the books as though they were going to attack her and stammered, "F-forgive me sir. I didn't… I wasn't going to…"

Anthony held his hand up for her to stop speaking. As she fell silent she grasped the hand that had touched the books to her chest and stared at him fearfully. It broke his heart that she should be so terrified of him.

"There's nothing to forgive," he said warmly. "I told you, this house is free for you to explore."

"Yes, I know." Yet, she still looked frightened.

He went over to where she had been standing and looked at the shelf. His grandfather had been a great lover of literature, especially the classics of the Greeks and Romans, and had amassed an impressive little collection. At the same time he was reminded of the Judge and his tastes for very different tales…

"Do you read?" he asked.

"Yes, but…" he turned to her when she stopped. She was looking at the shelf with a strange longing. "I was never permitted to. Books such as these were too base and vulgar for the delicate continence of a lady. The only book that was worthy of my eyes was the Bible."

Anthony smiled at her and said, "Well, that is in the past now. You needn't permission to read what you like."

Johanna regarded him warily as she approached, reaching her hand out to touch the books once more. "I would sometimes sneak them, but if I got caught, Turpin... he was terrible in his fury. Even now I fear he might come out and scold me for something improper."

"He can't. Not anymore," he said.

Her eyes fell on him strangely. There was a wily mischief in their depths that he never noticed before. Her eyes were a deep, warm brown that seemed familiar somehow. They were dark… the only part of her that was so dark, and the contrast was breathtaking.

Slowly she slipped one of the books, a fat volume that had HOMER written in gold embossed letters, out of it's place. She cradled it to her with one arm and regarded it fondly as she asked, "Do _you_ read?"

"I can," said Anthony, "I didn't have a choice in that matter, but I always preferred seeing things to reading of them."

Johanna looked at him sharply, her brow pursed with thoughtfulness. Then her gaze fell slowly back to the book with a new light in them. "I think I understand," she whispered.

Anthony touched her lightly on the shoulder and said, "Come, It is dark and this old house is spooky at night. Let me escort you to your room." She came with him, but seemed reluctant, so he added, "There's nothing to do tomorrow, so you can stay up and read all night if you like."

She brightened considerably at that and walked with a bit more briskness. When they passed the stairs that led up to Sweeney's wing she slowed for a moment and peered up them with curiosity. "How is your friend?" she asked.

"Mr. Todd?" Anthony wasn't sure how to answer. He'd almost forgot about his worries, but Johanna had just pulled them sharply back. "He's not well at all."

She nodded and said, "He's a deranged man, Anthony." She had a lot of sympathy in her voice, but more for her savior's dedication to the barber than for Todd himself.

Anthony grunted at that. "He has a right to be," he said sourly. Johanna regarded him with question in her eyes, and he was so tired of being questioned, so desperate for at least someone to understand why he cared about the man that he went on, "Mr. Todd has been truly ill used by the world, more so than anyone I've ever met."

She frowned, almost indignant at that.

"When you were up there," Anthony asked, "did you notice the scars on his wrists?"

"Yes."

"He usually keeps them covered. They're from chains, and they're not the worst scars he has."

They were well past the stairs by that point, so Johanna had to look over her shoulder to give them a sympathetic glance. "He was a prisoner?" That was something she could relate to.

"He was sent to the work colonies in Australia, on a fifteen year sentence."

"What was his crime?"

Anthony shook his head. "That's the thing," he said, "the charge was for shooting a man, but Mr. Todd never fired a gun in his life before I met him. Not just that, but I believe it was the Judge who sent him away, because he wanted his wife."

Johanna hung her head a little. She didn't want to be patronizing, but she saw Anthony's faithful trust in a convict a mite foolish. "Not everyone Turpin put away was innocent," she muttered.

"What was that?"

"How do you know Todd wasn't lying? That he didn't shoot someone? I mean no offence, but he's certainly capable of it."

Oddly, Anthony smiled at this. "I know because he proved it to me…" He looked down at the woman and his smile was slain by her frown. "You don't understand. Before London, I don't think he _was_ capable of killing anyone. I mean, even after all he's been through there was still not a drop of violence in him. He was quiet and sad, but strong as well, and very kind. Something terrible must have happened when we got to London to change him so."

Johanna stared ahead of her and said, "You talk as though you understand everything about him… How long have you known each other?"

"A year… a year and a half about."

"That's not very long," she said, doubtful.

"It's long enough when you're living on a ship."

Johanna didn't really understand that, but she accepted it anyways. There was something more pressing she wanted to discuss than the man's imprisonment. "Benjamin Barker, did he ever mention that name to you?"

"No," answered Anthony, "it doesn't sound familiar."

Finally they reached Johanna's room, and she thanked Anthony, dismissing him quickly. He was very disappointed by this, but she needed to be alone with her thoughts.

Sweeney Todd's conversation with the Judge, and his motive for revenge were finally clear to her, but she had so many more questions about him. She wrote off this fixation with understanding him as her curiosity coming back to her. It always got her in trouble with Turpin, but she was becoming comfortable with the thought that she was truly free of him.

She sat up late into the night, leafing through the pages of a book she had longed to read for years. Yet she didn't take in any of the words. Instead, there was a more interesting narrative for her to contemplate… if only because it surrounded a real person who was only a few halls away.

If the man upstairs was Sweeney Todd, than who was Benjamin Barker?

What happened to Todd's wife and child?

How did he know Johanna's song?

Even when she finally drifted into sleep, these questions continued to repeat themselves in her dreams.


End file.
